Tart
by bringmeadragon
Summary: On the Wounded Coast, Fenris finds himself plagued by a craving for more than just fruit. Fenris POV one-shot with lust, mirth and peasant-crap.


**Author's note:** It'll be a little longer before I update "It's a Long Road to the Deep Roads", but while I wrestle with a few scenes I figured I'd try my hand at something from Fenris's point of view rather than Siobhan's. This takes place at some vague point of time near the end of act two or beginning of act three, it's up to you amazing readers to decide which you'd prefer.

This is inspired by a conversation with the lovely folks at the Dragon Age Writer's Corner forum about food and possible sanitation practices in Thedas, as well as a comment Fenris makes during party banter (with someone, at some time... I swear) reguarding his preference for apples.

And why yes, I_ did_ take that and run with it! Enjoy.

* * *

"Varric, you're not doing it right! Lean back harder!"

Hawke's laughter echoed through the scarp the group had chosen for their resting place, the sound bouncing off the craggy walls like water tumbling across stones. Although the sun was unobstructed the Wounded Coast's skies seemed more milky white than blue, leaden with sweltering haze and severe light that could play tricks on even the most watchful of eyes. It took a particularly stubborn person to make their surroundings seem anything short of morose; yet Siobhan Hawke had a tendency to make the feared passage seem a carnival. Fenris was the last to climb up the modest rock face to their natural safe house, folding himself into a restful crouch only once he'd scanned the far-off road to ensure they were truly alone.

The human and the dwarf were sitting back-to-back in the middle of the shallow alcove, both fighting to achieve a comfortable position. True to form Hawke had evidently shucked off her boots the moment they'd reached safety; they lay discarded beside the scuffed leather pack that held their supplies. Fenris watched quietly as Varric shook with laughter and attempted to both peel the cheesecloth from a loaf of bread and prop Hawke up as she leaned heavily, upending a bag of fruit into her lap. Merrill had retreated to the opposite side of the modest clearing; the insipid mage was wholly engrossed with a patch of flowers that had somehow managed to spring through a crack in the dusty stone.

From years of experience the motley crew had learned that this spot provided an excellent shelter that could be neither seen nor heard from the road, a mere fifty feet away. It had been discovered accidently during an impromptu marksmanship contest between Hawke and Varric – the two had both shot at a gull flying high above the cliffs and scrambled up the rock face, convinced one of them had managed to bring it down. They may have returned with nothing but a pair of banged-up arrows to show for it, but the discovery of the escarpment had proved far more useful than a scraggly bird – particularly on journeys like this.

The slaver's hideout Varric had caught wind of at the Hanged Man was nearly a day's journey from Kirkwall, and if the group hoped to be in any shape to do something about it they couldn't be_ completely_ exhausted upon arrival. As always Hawke had insisted fervently that they stop the slavers before they had a chance to ship their living cargo, and though Fenris appreciated her hatred for the trade he found himself on edge being at the coast. The place had the effect of making him feel helplessly exposed – his eyes flicked to the crust of the Vimmark mountain range looming in the distance, scowling at the massive shape of Sundermount that could just barely be distinguished.

"We can't be the only hungry ones." Hawke insisted once she finally stopped squirming, looking first toward the bent-over Merrill – who, oblivious to her companions, was murmuring cheerfully to the plants – before turning her gaze to Fenris. He felt himself involuntarily bite the inside of his lip when he met her eyes, feeling frozen in their liquid silver tone that could shift from blue to sage to lavender in a heartbeat. At the moment they reflected the watery afternoon sunlight, glinting so brightly they seemed almost white. Fenris shook his head and attempted a reassuring grin, embarrassed when his face instead twisted into something more akin to a grimace.

Hawke shrugged and raised her arms to loosen her dark hair from its knot. It tumbled past her shoulders haphazardly, errant strands causing Varric to sputter as they fell in his face.

"Maker's breath woman, you're hairier than I am!" The dwarf shoved Hawke's hair back over into her face, causing the human to burst into laughter again. The chestnut curls formed a wild snarl that Fenris knew only appeared to be untamed; he remembered the ease with which tendrils could be pulled from their tangled home, surprisingly soft to the touch.

"Now that you mention it, I do think I've been getting shorter. _Andraste's flaming crotch_, dwarves are contagious!"

"Then why aren't you any better looking?" Varric retorted, ripping off a chunk of bread and popping it into his mouth.

The comment made Fenris raise his eyes to Hawke again. He found himself studying the way her faintly purple tattoos curved up each arm to disappear behind the shoulder-guards of her armour, reappearing as a pattern at her clavicle that he knew trailed down to her chest, curving across to compliment her –

Shocked with himself he gave his head a sharp shake, suddenly feeling the need to occupy his hands. Pulling the massive claymore from its sheath on his back, Fenris retrieved a whetstone from a pouch at his side and ran it languorously along the length of the blade. The familiar movement calmed his nerves and began to edge his mind away from any thoughts of the night he'd spent with Siobhan.

It was nearly two years in the past, yet he was finding it more and more difficult to put the memory of her body pressed against his out of mind. Her touch had been unlike anything he'd ever felt, but giving in had meant putting himself at the mercy of a double-edged blade; the pleasure had uncovered tide of dark emotions that had threatened to pull him under. But even the pain he'd felt as she wormed her way under his skin and ran her hands across his lyrium markings hadn't been enough to tear himself from her embrace. It had been the lack of control he'd felt upon release, the barrier that slipped and resulting flood of memories that had crashed from the hidden corners of his mind, decimating the defenses he'd worked on for so long in one fell movement.

They couldn't be together; he doubted they should even be near one another in any capacity. But the anguish he'd felt when allowing himself to give in to her had been nothing compared to the emptiness that took over when he considered leaving. For her part, Siobhan had been more understanding than he felt he deserved; although Fenris suspected her own complicated past had something to do with that. He'd never seen her commit to one person for any length of time, and supposed it was for the best that they be allowed to hold on to whatever respective level of control they retained.

Although their friendship had long since returned to normalcy, he was grateful that Hawke was allowing him space today. He felt too out of sorts to be interested in conversation, and after a handful of jibes she'd given him a knowing grin and left him to his thoughts as they travelled. What she mercifully didn't know was that it was precisely that radiant smile, how well-tuned she'd become to his moods, and those _haunting eyes_ that vexed him in the first place.

Fenris focused on sharpening his blade as a breeze stirred the sparse blades of grass surrounding him, its cool reprieve from the sweltering heat carrying the distinctive smell of sweat and perfume and _woman_ with it. He found the act of ignoring it torturous, wallowing in his inability to keep his mind focused. Would that he could consider her the "_bro_" Varric did; Fenris could barely manage thinking of her as his cohort Hawke instead of Siobhan, the woman whose name and voice and touch haunted his dreams…

A throaty "Mmm" sounded from the pair of rogues' resting place. Siobhan was stripping off her gloves, lithe fingers grasping hold of the tips and peeling the black leather slowly from her hands. The terra-cotta skin of her fingers glistened under a faint sheen of sweat and Fenris watched them slowly travel to her lap, plucking a fat strawberry from the pile of fruit.

"I hope those are from the Hightown market." Varric commented suspiciously as Hawke flicked a piece of dirt from the fruit's skin. She nodded exasperatedly and twisted to shoot Fenris a devious look, grinning at their friend's caution. It wasn't entirely unwarranted; while most of Kirkwall's produce had to meet certain health standards it was still common for things fertilized in rather archaic ways to find their way onto the odd food stand. It wouldn't be the first time Hawke had gotten violently ill for scarfing some raw carrot or tomato she'd picked up from a Lowtown vendor; he understood her reluctance to have them passed over with a sanitation spell, but she could at the very least give them a wash. Hawke winked and turned her attention back to her meal.

Fenris continued to methodically sharpen his blade, though he found himself unable to tear his eyes from Siobhan. She lifted the deep red fruit to her pale lips, tilting her head backward to reveal a bare expanse of neck as she brought the strawberry to her mouth. She seemed to bite down in slow motion; from his vantage point Fenris could only see a portion of her face past the dark sheet of hair, could just barely make out the shape of her lowering eyelashes as she closed her eyes in pleasure and swallowed. When the berry was finished she lowered her head, allowing Fenris a perfect view as she raised her hand slowly to her mouth and lazily sucked the juices from her fingers, bringing them one-by-one to a pair of now blood-red lips.

He realized a beat too late that he'd stopped moving; his sword lay forgotten in his lap and the whetstone fell from his grasp with a hearty _plop_. Siobhan was about to bite into another strawberry when the sound made her shoot a quizzical look his way. She looked from his slack-jawed face to the fruit she held, then shrugged and tossed him the strawberry instead, choosing another piece of fruit from where they rest upon her legs. Despite his shaking hands Fenris managed to grasp the berry before it hit the ground; his breath caught when he realized it felt warm because of the time it has just spent in her hand.

Or her lap.

He considered the fruit as he held it, wondering if his body could handle bringing it to his mouth as she'd been about to – and if the sweetness of the strawberry, which surely coincided with the taste of her stained lips, would push him over the edge. Suddenly conscious of his strange behaviour Fenris shot a panicked glance at Hawke, but she was too busy returning her leftovers to the ratty hide bag to notice.

Hawke lazily tossed the bag of fruit to the middle of the clearing, looking satisfied when it landed squarely inside the larger supply rucksack. She licked her lips, running her small tongue across first the top – tracing the bow-shaped ridge – then the bottom, trying to scoop up any last taste of strawberry. Fenris was suddenly struck with the recollection that her lips had tasted like pepper; he violently willed his mind away from any notion of what their spicy taste would feel like mixed with such sweetness.

He watched as Hawke shifted forward, bending one knee to allow access to her pant-leg. She ran the piece of fruit in her hand along the soft leather encasing her thigh, rubbing it thoroughly against a leg that seemed far too shapely to allow for the dexterity he'd seen it employ. Heat rose to his chest as Fenris watched the rogue polish the fruit, and he felt as if the universe had turned completely against him when he saw what it was.

Hawke was massaging the _shit _out of an apple.

It was rare for Fenris to crave anything apart from vengeance, but when he did, it was apples –particularly green ones like the apple Hawke was preparing to eat. He felt as though he could feel the moisture of the crisp first taste, could sense the waltz of bitter tart dance upon his tongue as sweet juices coated his lips –

"There weren't any apples in Hightown yesterday." Varric turned to face his friend and did a violent double-take when he saw that she was biting into the fruit whole. "Oh, you are _not _doing what I think you're doing. HAWKE!"

She sputtered as the dwarf reached around to smack her upside the head, a look of comical panic settling across her features as she dove for the apple which had flown from her grasp. "What?" She shrieked with indignation once she'd ascertained that the fruit was still edible.

"Where did that come from?" Varric demanded; Fenris didn't think he'd ever seen Hawke look so sheepish. "Fromthemanoutsidethepub" she mumbled as she wiped the dust from the apple in question.

"Speak up or I start peppering my stories with your piss-poor sanitary habits, and you _know_ how I exaggerate."

"From the man outside the pub!" Hawke repeated, lunging away from the incredulous dwarf to roll onto her stomach a few feet away. "I hadn't seen a green apple in _weeks_, and he was standing _right there_ when I left the Hanged Man with this great shining basket just _full _of them –"

"You could be eating peasant crap!" The dwarf exclaimed. It was true; plenty of farmers in the Free Marches still chose to use excrement on their crops – and not all of that was from animals. "You probably just got a mouthful of something grown in the shit of the very man who sold it to you!"

At that, Siobhan broke into a furious fit of giggles.

"At least peel the blighted thing," Varric insisted wearily as he handed Hawke a heavily decorated pocket-knife, "before you morph into some kind of herbivorous Darkspawn."

Hawke's lunge away from the dwarf had situated her closer to Fenris; she lay not five feet away, this time facing him head-on. He doubted she took much notice of the fact as he watched her begin to peel the apple thoughtfully. There was nothing overtly sexual about the movement – but there was _something _about the gentle prick she made on the fruit, the liquid way she ran the knife under the bright green skin, the languid movement as her hand circled the apple, peeling away the exterior to reveal the soft white flesh underneath…

Even Hawke's throwing the apple-peel at Varric while yelling "eat peasant shit" did nothing to break the spell. Fenris' heart rate quickened as she settled herself back against the ground, presumably unaware that she now gave him the perfect view of her chest as she relaxed on her stomach, the flawless shape of two breasts just barely alluded to at the neckline of her leather armour. He couldn't breathe as he watched her bring the knife back to the apple in her hand, carving out a portion with a gentle curving movement, fluid as the gesture of removing a thigh-high stocking or pushing a pair of smallclothes from curving hips – his heart pounded as he watched her slowly raise the slice of apple to her mouth, he felt himself harden as it ascended to her waiting lips and shuddered as she bit down on the fruit, closing her eyes in pleasure as she took the apple in her mouth and –

A highly-amused giggle sounded suddenly from his left. Fenris whipped around to see Merrill standing beside him, a tiny bird that she'd evidently coaxed from one of the holes in the rock walls perched on her hand. It flew away in a panic as she brought her hands to her mouth and stifled another laugh, eyes dancing as she looked at him.

"Avert your eyes." He spat, arousal quickly giving way to rage. He was suddenly aware of moisture in his hand – he'd evidently closed it around the strawberry he held, reducing the fruit to a ball of mushy pulp.

Merrill paid him no heed, eyes flicking between the oblivious Hawke and the irked elf with glee. Fenris grasped the handle of his claymore with his free hand, raising the sword from his lap as he glared at the Dalish mage. She took the threat lightly, if it registered at all – she seemed far too pleased with what she'd just witnessed to react to anything else.

"Avert. Your. _Eyes!_" He repeated, gripping the handle of his sword so tightly he felt his knuckles turn white. Merrill quelled her giggles, but the look on her face became leagues more self-satisfied as she leaned closer to him, smiling mischievously.

"I think you should avert your…" She said in a musical lilt, and Fenris braced himself for what he suddenly knew was coming, "…_puppy dog eyes_!"

Before he was aware of the movement Fenris had launched the strawberry at Merrill; the now unrecognizable fruit sailed across the distance between them and landed with a splat right between the elf's wide eyes.

Hawke and Varric were on their feet the moment Merrill shrieked, rushing to their friend and donning looks of pure astonishment. Fenris watched smugly as a portion of red mush dripped down the bridge of Merrill's nose, inwardly grateful that the irritation she inspired was so intense it had wiped away every last vestige of arousal he'd felt.

That is, until Hawke thrust her half-eaten apple at him as she fumbled to wipe the strawberry from Merrill's face, shoving the tart fruit firmly into his unsuspecting mouth.

_Venhedis!_


End file.
